Odes 3.11

An invocation to the lyre

Often referred to as an ode to Mercury, who is addressed only in the first couplet, this poem is really an invocation to his invention, the lyre. The scene in which the occupants of the underworld are captivated by its music is a stock situation which appears elsewhere in Horace, and in other poets including Virgil and Ovid. Commentators have sometimes found the length of the passage about the daughters of Danaus disproportionate, but such a striking and dramatic scene from myth could well be an end in itself for Horace the virtuoso. The message of the poem as a whole is clearly that Lyde, whom Horace (if he is the speaker of the poem) is pursuing, should take pity on him, just as the one virtuous daughter of Danaus did on her husband. The lyre symbolises the persuasive power of poetry, which Horace hopes will win over the girl he desires.

See the illustrated blog post here.

Metre: Sapphic.

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Mercuri, nam te docilis magistro
movit Amphion lapides canendo,
tuque testudo resonare septem
callida nervis,

nec loquax olim neque grata, nunc et
divitum mensis et amica templis,
dic modos, Lyde quibus obstinatas
adplicet auris,

quae velut latis equa trima campis
ludit exsultim metuitque tangi
nuptiarum expers et adhuc protervo
cruda marito.

tu potes tigris comitesque silvas
ducere et rivos celeres morari;
cessit immanis tibi blandienti
ianitor aulae

Cerberus, quamvis furiale centum
muniant angues caput eius atque
spiritus taeter saniesque manet
ore trilingui;

quin et Ixion Tityosque voltu
risit invito, stetit urna paulum
sicca, dum grato Danai puellas
carmine mulces.

audiat Lyde scelus atque notas
virginum poenas et inane lymphae
dolium fundo pereuntis imo
seraque fata,

quae manent culpas etiam sub Orco.
inpiae, (nam quid potuere maius?)
inpiae sponsos potuere duro
perdere ferro.

una de multis face nuptiali
digna periurum fuit in parentem
splendide mendax et in omne virgo
nobilis aevum,

“surge” quae dixit iuveni marito,
“surge, ne longus tibi somnus unde
non times detur; socerum et scelestas
falle sorores,

quae velut nactae vitulos leaenae
singulos eheu lacerant: ego illis
mollior nec te feriam neque intra
claustra tenebo.

me pater saevis oneret catenis,
quod viro clemens misero peperci,
me vel extremos Numidarum in agros
classe releget:

i pedes quo te rapiunt et aurae,
dum favet nox et Venus, i secundo
omine et nostri memorem sepulcro
scalpe querelam.”

O Mercury, for with you as his teacher your apt pupil Amphion moved the stones with his song; and you, lyre, so skilled at sounding with your seven strings, once voiceless and unloved but welcome now in temples and at the tables of the rich, play music to which Lyde can turn her stubborn ears, Lyde who is laying like a frisky three-year old filly on the broad plain, shrinking from the touch, knowing nothing of marriage and unready still for a wanton husband. You have power to lead tigers and woodlands as your companions and to hold back swift rivers; the doorkeeper of the vast hall [of Hades], Cerberus, cedes the way to you as you soothe him, though a hundred of the Furies’ serpents arm his head and along with gore a loathsome breath oozes from his three-tongued mouth; why, even Ixion and Tityos can’t help but smile, and the urn stands dry for a little while as you charm the daughters of Danaus with your lovely song. Let Lyde hear of those young women’s crime, the famous penalty they paid and that great jar, empty of the water which flows through it down at the bottom, and the fate which, even if delayed, waits in the end for guilt even in the land of Hades. In their sacrilege – what worse sacrilege could they have done –they were able to bring themselves to kill their husbands with the pitiless steel. Of the many, just one, worthy of the wedding-torch, showed a nobility famous down the ages and played her perjured father magnificently false when she said to her young bridegroom, “get up – get up, or you may be given your long sleep from a quarter that you do not suspect: foil your father-in-law and my wicked sisters, who are like lionesses who have pounced on young calves and are tearing them one by one: less cruel than they are, I shall not strike you down or keep you confined. Let my father load me with chains because I have shown mercy and spared you, my husband, or let him ship me away to the farthest fields of Numidia: go where your feet and the sea-winds take you, while Venus and the night are in your favour; go with good omens, and in my memory carve my sad story on your tomb.”

More Poems by Horace

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